


His Father's Echo

by Hobbitfing



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:31:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitfing/pseuds/Hobbitfing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Mountain is retaken and Thorin is crowned King Under the Mountain (presumably with Consort Bilbo, but that’s not relevant to this story), Kili slips away to a chamber where the memories of his family have been recorded, in hopes of finding some connection to his father, dead before he was born. </p><p>This story will probably make the most sense to those who have read Kenneth Oppel’s fantastic Silverwing series. We envisioned the dwarves having something similar to the bats’ echo chamber, where memories can be recorded and viewed later, even after those who made the recording are dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Father's Echo

**Author's Note:**

> My wife co-authored this, but she doesn't have an AO3 account.
> 
> I don't remember where we got the name Firi for Fili and Kili's father, but I know that we didn't come up with it.

The doors were massive and imposing—bronze-coloured, richly ornamented, with patterns telling the history of the room and what a dwarf could hope to find within. 

Kili swallowed, hard, and took a deep, steadying breath. He knew what he hoped to find, though he had no way of knowing if it existed. The hinges opened easily, without a squeak, as though the long years of the dragon’s reign hadn’t existed. The room was completely black, and Kili almost turned back. Surely, he could wait until he had a guide or an official tour? 

He planted his feet deeper in his boots, digging in his heels and curling his toes, grounding himself and affirming his space in the world, as he had been taught. He wouldn’t turn back. Not now. Not from this. He knew what to expect, at least a little. 

He stepped forward into the darkness, leaving his mind open and ready, as he had been told, waiting for images and voices to manifest themselves to him. He walked further, slowly, moving from place to place until he found a memory that would resonate with him. 

A booming voice told an old story that he was familiar with, one of the stories he’d been told as a dwarfling. It was his great grandfather, Thror, all confidence and great shining beard. 

Even though he had been expecting it, the voice rolling out of the darkness like sudden thunder still startled him. Kili whirled, stifling a yelp, turning to face the threat. He heard the voice a little before he could focus or tune himself and see the image. It was solid and real, not flickering or ghostly as he might have expected. He was abruptly on his knees, bowing in front of the great figure. “Thror,” he gasped, feeling as though he had taken a blow to the chest. This massive, powerful dwarf couldn’t possibly be his great grandfather. Or rather, he, Kili, wasn’t worthy of being Thror’s descendent. He was too delicately featured, too beardless, too…elvish, if one were being perfectly honest and not kind. He had certainly heard it, growing up, on the few occasions he hadn’t been pressed to Fili’s or his mother’s or his uncle’s sides. Dark, cruel whispers, meant to hurt. Kili wrapped his arms around his knees and listened to the story, the voice that rumbled and shuddered the room, and Kili with it. It was like seeing a god, a vision larger than life. Kili knew that the story wasn’t being told to him, that if he stayed long enough, the identical vision would replay, without deviation, for eternity. But it was something, some way to connect with this great king. He sat, silently, and listened, though this wasn’t what he had come for. 

When Thror had finished his tale, he gave a soft sigh and his gaze softened into a smile. He looked back over his shoulder at someone before the beginning of the story started again, Thror once again serious.

Kili’s lip quivered a little, and he remembered stories his uncle had told—the three Heirs of Durin hiding beneath Thror’s robes; Thorin sitting on his grandfather’s lap and being told stories and fed treats. Things that Kili would never know, that even Thorin could never give him. Realizing that the story was repeating, he heaved himself to his feet like a much older dwarf and stumbled on into the room. The sound of his palm hitting one of the perfectly smooth, reflective walls was very loud in the now-silent chamber, and Kili winced. That sound, and perhaps a fleeting image of himself, as he now was, would be recorded forever.

For awhile everything was dark, but then a flash of a dwarf nearly ran right through him; here was an image he’d heard Balin and Dwalin tease each other about. A younger Balin was speaking seriously about the news of the Kingdom that year. Thorin, Dis, Frerin and Firi were running about, being chased by a huge, side-burned young Dwalin, all of them squealing and laughing. Silence was encouraged in the echo chamber, unless a dwarf was planning on leaving a recording.

Kili couldn’t help but laugh with them, even as he wiped a tear on his sleeve. Here were dwarves he would never meet, who had died before he was born. Even the ones who were alive were not the people they had once been. Dwalin and Thorin had never been this playful and unburdened in Kili’s memory. Balin had always borne the scars of a life of battle. Even at his most unguarded, like during the party so long ago at Bilbo’s, Dwalin had always carried a weight that wasn’t pressing on the young dwarfling in this echo. Still, Kili had to smile as Balin reprimanded his wayward brother and friends, barely containing the twitching at the corners of his mouth. These were happier times, but they were truly lost outside of this room. 

Kili looked more closely. There were two dwarves who were nearly identical. From stories, he knew that one was his uncle, Frerin, and the other was Frerin’s best friend and his own father, Firi. They both bore a very striking resemblance to Fili, as they had been told many times. Frerin, Kili decided, was the taller, with more beard. The other, who must be Firi, had a certain quirk of the mouth, a glint in the eye, and reminded Kili of himself. He watched the dead and the lost laugh and play around him. 

Abruptly the echo disappeared and there stood the echo Kili had been really looking for. Firi stood before him, his green eyes still gleaming with an inner laughter, singing a love song. He was dressed in a golden robe, his hair gleaming down his back, and though he was an adult, he had the beard of a youth, still soft and delicate. His features in general were soft, with the very same elvish fragility that he himself had been teased for. 

At first Kili didn’t notice her, but soon he saw his mother too, young and smiling, tearful. This was his first open courtship to her, somewhere where the entire Kingdom could see it, for as long as the Mountain stood. When he was done, she stepped into his arms and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, kissing her forehead and murmuring to her.

Kili didn’t realize that he was crying until he felt wet heat trailing down and dropping off his chin. And then, abruptly, he was sobbing uncontrollably, on his knees again in front of this reflection, the only part of his father he would ever know. “Adad!” He felt the word being ripped from his throat and thrown at this memory. He hadn’t said the word since he was very young, before he had known how deeply it upset his uncle to be called by that title. 

Firi and Dis hugged each other tightly. Between hiccupping sobs, Kili heard his father say with a smile in his voice; “I love you, ghivasha.” (treasure)

The song started over again. It wasn’t one Kili had ever heard before, and it mentioned treasure many times within it, and his mother’s real name. Firi must have written it himself. Soon they were embracing again.

Seeing his parents, holding one another and in love, Kili had a sudden idea. He climbed to his feet and approached them, hesitantly at first, then with greater confidence. He stepped between the shadows, as though they were both holding him, pressed between them and safe. With his eyes closed, he couldn’t feel them, but he could hear his father’s voice, the movement of his mother’s clothing and her breathing. He stayed like that, painfully aware that no one was holding him up, that he was entirely alone in the room.  
Having seen Kili disappear from the bustle of Fili’s robe-fitting, Dis followed her youngest son after awhile. She had some idea of where he’d be going, after first checking the nearest pie-shop to make sure he hadn’t just wanted a snack. He’d been talking non-stop about the echo chamber since they’d discovered it was intact. Though she had told him to wait to go there with an escort, clearly he hadn’t had the patience to wait.

She opened the big door quietly and snuck in. The warrior had to bite her lip to keep from calling out to him. She could see him, crying between the echo of herself and Firi. As quietly as she could, she hurried to her son and wrapped him up in her arms, the way she wished Firi could hold them both now.

Completely lost in this echo of the past, Kili screamed when he suddenly felt flesh and blood arms around him. 

Dis pulled him out of the echo and kissed his chin, since he was too tall now for her to reach his forehead. “It’s alright, khuzdith,” she murmured. (young dwarf)

“Amad!” Kili buried his face in her hair, wishing that he was small enough to press himself against her chest, or be scooped up by her entirely. He was still crying, and he was ashamed, but he couldn’t seem to stop. 

She sat, pulling her boy down with her and holding him in her lap like she did when he was small. She stroked his hair and kissed his face, brushing away his tears. Dis didn’t seem to care that he was crying, her own tears falling freely. 

“He would be so proud of you, Kili. I only wish he had been able to…” her words caught in her throat and she pressed their foreheads together. 

“I don’t remember him. Not at all. Fili…” Fili had been very young when their parents had marched off to battle and only one returned, but he swore that he remembered their father, at least a little. “No he wouldn’t,” Kili continued, aware of how sulky and babyish he sounded, but unable to change it. “I’m thin and I hardly have a beard and…and I look like…I’m not like him! Not like Thror or Frerin or any of them!”

“You’re just like him, khuzdith, the only thing you have from me is your dark hair.” She smiled. “He was a silly, thin boy with a smile permanently glued to his face, who said all sorts of nonsense and loved everyone who was kind to him. You are just like him, Kili. Just the same.”

“…the only weapon I’m good at is the bow…” 

“You’re using his bow, you foolish boy. It was his weapon too.”

“What?” Kili looked up at his mother’s face. “He…he was an archer, too? I never knew…” He glanced back at his father’s face, caught forever in the arms of the woman he loved. “Then why’d you go for him? You could’ve had…well, anyone.”

“Because I loved him, Kili.” She looked up at Firi and her younger self embracing. “He was sweet and gentle and he wrote me songs. He thought I was wonderful and he made me feel wonderful. He could always make me smile.”

“’k.” Kili cuddled against his mother, and they watched the memory together.


End file.
